


The Sleeping Prince

by elistaire



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Creepy, Gen, Horror, Pre-Romance, Pre-Slash, Terror, Utopia, creepy as all get-out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:29:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elistaire/pseuds/elistaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos is invited to a small island for a linguistics conference.  It seems like utopia, but all is dark and sinister under the surface.  Good thing MacLeod is along to help sort things out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sleeping Prince

**Author's Note:**

> There was a line in a novel I read and it haunted me after I had moved along in the story. I tried to go back and find it, but it was as if I had imagined the sentence, the paragraph. Whether real or imagined, it brought to mind this little fic. 
> 
> ~~~ 
> 
> The title isn't perhaps the best, as I've seen it well-used, but it fits, so I'm keeping it. 
> 
> ~~~ 
> 
> Usual amount of swearing and violence for the tv show. 
> 
> ~~~ 
> 
> Also, I like writing kick-ass original female characters.

Duncan answered the knock on his door to find Methos flapping a piece of paper at him. 

"Want to go, MacLeod?" he asked, and Duncan had to grab at the paper to steady it enough to read. Meanwhile, Methos had moved past him into the loft. "Invitation only. One of the few places I've never been. It's supposed to be the closest thing to paradise that exists." He closed his eyes. "I can almost feel the warm sand, hot sun, and taste the cold beer now."

Duncan looked at the paper closely. "This is an invitation to a Linguistics Conference," he said. 

"Look again," Methos advised. 

"Wow," Duncan said as he read the bottom where the location was printed, "The island of Grisaille."

"Yes," Methos said. "And I can bring one person with me. Want to go?"

Duncan didn't have to think about it. He'd never been to the island, either, and it was supposed to truly spectacular. Tucked out past the Caribbean Sea, in the Atlantic Ocean, it was considered too small and fragile to accommodate more than a certain number of visitors per year so getting an opportunity to visit the tiny island country was something not to pass up. "Yes," he said automatically. 

"Good," Methos said, his eyes glittering with the excitement of a born traveler. "This is going to be fantastic."

~~~

From the air, the island looked like a place lost to time. The deep blue ocean gave way to lighter shades of blue, turning a jewel-toned aquamarine as the land sloped gently up, revealing pristine white sand beaches. Then the land shifted into hues of green, leading with the freshest spring green ever to greet the eye, and shifting through to a lush, velvet-looking forest green before the mountain peaks scraped grey and white against the tranquil azure-lavender of the sky. 

There appeared to be one city on the small island, clustered at one point, where the beaches were the most accessible. Steep cliffs rose out of the ocean along one curved edge, providing a natural break against storms coming through from the wide ocean. After the city, houses grew smaller, into tidy neighborhoods, and then to well tended looking farms, and then wild areas. 

"The conference is being held at the Hotel Hanla," Methos said as he stared out the window. The plane was closing in fast on the small strip of airport that flanked against a side of the island with a marshy appearance. "It's right next to the Palace."

"Palace?" Duncan asked, also captivated by the sight outside. "I thought it was a democracy?"

"It is." Methos furrowed his brow. "But they retain some kind of royal family succession. It grew out of the previous tribal governing of the native island population. The switch to democracy happened over a hundred years ago, and was bloodless. Seems everyone wanted it, so they just drew up the paperwork and did it. But it was strange, when I looked up the island's political history, that's all it said. Very scant information about it, actually. When we're on the ground, perhaps we could learn more."

"That would be interesting," Duncan said, and leaned back in his seat. The airplane was only a few minutes from landing. He glanced back at the other occupants of the plane. About half, he guessed, were also here for the conference. There had been a most heated discussion a few rows back about diphthongs for most of the flight. 

The plane landed with precision, and the process to disembark and go through customs didn't take too long. Soon, they had their luggage in hand, and had stepped out into the warm afternoon sun. 

"Gorgeous," Duncan commented. It was sunny and warm without being too humid, and there didn't seem to be any mosquitoes. 

Methos flagged down a taxi driver, who took their luggage with a smile and carefully placed it in the trunk of his small, electric car. 

"No oil?" Duncan asked, suddenly noticing that all the taxis were electric. 

"No, sir," the taxi driver said with the lilting accent of the island. He had a friendly face and a contagious grin. "Not for the cars. We have some in case of emergencies for our generators, but mostly we run on electric."

"That's fantastic. Do you generate the electricity from wind farms?" Duncan asked, thinking of the many breezes that came off the ocean.

"Some," the driver said. "Hotel Hanla, you said? That's only a few minutes away."

Methos took the front passenger seat and Duncan climbed in the back. "We were curious about your island," he said. "I couldn't tell…do you have a president? Prime Minister?"

The taxi driver laughed. "No, no. We elect a Director. He or she runs everything." He shrugged. "Of course, we're such a small place, that there isn't really that much to direct." 

"What else?" Methos asked. "Is it mostly elections? Or appointments?"

The taxi driver gave his shrug again. "Both. We're too small to worry much about those things. We have everything we need here. Except for some things we have to import. Apples, maple syrup, ice wine," he said and licked his lips. "We haven't the climate to grow things that need cold to be good. But we have the best citrus fruit you can imagine. Make sure to try it. Our Grisaille Oranges are to die for."

"We will," Duncan said, and then they were at the hotel, and there wasn't time for any more questions. 

The Hotel Hanla was moderately large, with fresh flowers in vases, and a clean white and taupe color scheme. The employees were fastidious and friendly. Checking in at the main desk was easy, and they were put in separate rooms next to each other, both with windows facing the ocean, and ample balconies. 

"Cocktails at six," Methos told Duncan as they separated into their rooms. "To meet and greet everyone. There are supposed to be snacks. What'll you do tomorrow while I'm at the conference?"

Duncan smiled. "Maybe go for a walk around the city in the morning. Mostly just relax. I brought a few good books with me, and those beaches are just too amazing to not visit right away."

Methos looked envious. "Maybe I can break away from the afternoon talks," he said. "The more interesting lectures are in the morning, usually."

"I'll bring out an extra chair for you. It'll be ready and waiting," Duncan said. 

"Perfect. See you at six." Methos went into his room and closed the door behind him. 

~~~ 

At six, Methos was in the lounge area, drinking an ice cold beer that he'd never tried before, and mingling. Dr. Itiel Kingston was brazenly talking about epiglottal stops to a small group of people and Methos was wondering how long he had to stay to be polite when MacLeod finally came in. 

"Excuse me," he said, glad to step away. He was doubting why he ever came to these conferences in the first place. These academic types could be over the top bombastic and pretentious. 

"That looks good," MacLeod said, pointing to the micro-brew that Methos had in hand.

"It's a local beer," Methos said. "Not bad."

"I'll have one." MacLeod motioned to the barman, who delivered up the requested drink. "How's the socializing going?"

Methos sighed. "I forgot how pompous everyone in the linguistics profession could be."

"Surely not!" MacLeod's response was tinged with well-intended mocking. 

Methos smiled ruefully. "I suppose they think the same of me."

"Want to split and go for a walk?"

"Absolutely." Methos drained the rest of his beer and MacLeod set the rest of his aside. They left the bar behind and headed out to see the sights. The sun had just dipped below the horizon and everything seemed painted in a soft, tranquil light. 

"I could spend a lifetime here," Methos remarked as they walked on the wide sidewalks. A few street vendors were selling the local versions of vegetable pies, meat on a stick, and tropical smoothies, and they stopped to buy food to nibble on.

"It does seem idyllic," MacLeod said. "Of course, this is a tourist area, so I suspect we aren't seeing the full spectrum of Grisaille."

"I know." Methos slid a glance sideways and MacLeod smiled at him, and they walked the rest of the way out to the nearest pier, and stared out into the darkening water. The sky was painted in gold and rose. "I'm glad you came along," Methos said as they finally turned around, after the sky had been swathed in rich purple-plum, and the stars had started to twinkle.

"Me too," MacLeod said. 

~~~

Methos attended the conference all the next day, finding it far more interesting than he'd expected from listening to the off-hand conversations of the previous evening. The talks were well researched and enlightening. There was still a lot of pretension, but the speakers were toned done, and far more humble, as they acknowledged the limits of their studies, and surged forward with ideas for future research. And he was able to successfully avoid the two people that would have caused him true consternation. 

When the last talk concluded, Methos was tired, but brimming with excitement. He wanted nothing more than to corner MacLeod and run through his thoughts in a dozen other languages. Languages he was often forced to hide knowledge of with his peers in the linguistics arena, lest they realize the significance of his vocabulary, or a misplaced word or accent. No, he wanted the unfettered freedom to be himself, just for a little while, and bounce ideas around. 

He waited almost impatiently in his room for MacLeod to return from his day's adventures. Dinner that night was a formal affair at the nearby Palace. Methos had hoped to get a chance to talk with MacLeod before they were surrounded by people and had to watch their language. 

Macleod, however, returned to his room barely fifteen minutes before the scheduled shuttle to the Palace. "Sorry," he apologized as he rushed to take a shower. "I fell asleep on the beach." He looked slightly sheepish. "It's very tranquil here."

Methos stiffened his spine and narrowed his eyes. "For some of us." 

There was no time to talk openly as they hurried to the two shuttles, and then were guided through to the Palace, and the dining area, where they had assigned seats. The Palace itself was opulence defined. Made of white and pink marble, it was situated on a point so that it was surrounded by the ocean on three sides, and caught the colors of the setting sun such that it appeared to be glowing from within. The ceilings arched excessively high, and all the furnishings were expensive and elaborate. The gardens and footpaths were meticulously kept, and lush with ripe fruit and sparkling tiled fountains. A cadre of caretakers would have had to be employed to keep the grand areas so speck-free.

They had been escorted through a hallway hung with portraits, each depicting a long-ago royal ruler. One portrait caught Methos' attention, and he turned to look at it more closely, but an escort waved him along, and he lost the opportunity to see what had piqued him. 

The dining room itself was sumptuous, with deep, thick carpeting and a mahogany table so lustrous that it shone like a mirror. All the plate-ware was of precariously thin white china, and the silverware was actual silver, gleaming as if it was brand new. 

"Welcome!" said an older gentleman with silver hair and a broad smile, his arms open in a expansive gesture reflecting his words. "I'm Vice-Director Jared Shamokin. I bid you very welcome to our beautiful island. We're so very pleased to sponsor this conference this year."

Methos tuned out the rest of what the man said. He was concentrating on the location of his arch-nemesis, Aloysius Barnstock. The man seemed to make it a point to contradict everything Methos did and said in the field. If Methos submitted a paper, Barnstock submitted a rebuttal. Methos clenched his teeth and felt like spitting. Barnstock had insinuated himself to sit next to the head of the linguistics conference. 

"Half the table can hear you grinding your teeth," MacLeod whispered. "Something wrong?"

"No," Methos said. He noticed that Vice-Director Shamokin was still prattling on about how perfect his island was. It'd be a hell of a lot more perfect if they'd dump Barnstock in the bay, Methos thought. 

"You didn't tell me one of us was here," MacLeod whispered again, this time with some meaningful eye contact. 

Methos swung his attention around again, to the second person he'd spent the day avoiding: Salema Merrimack. She caught his glance and gave him a smoldering, smirky smile. "Yes. I was trying to ignore her."

MacLeod grew instantly serious. "Is she dangerous?"

"Only to my ego." 

"Oh?" MacLeod sounded infinitely interested. "Why is that?"

"She's really, really old. And she enjoys pointing out my errors." Unlike, Barnstock, however, Salema was unerringly correct when she contradicted him. Also unlike Barnstock, Salema was highly attractive. Methos had to guard against that. The last thing he needed was to fall into the arms of a woman who might outsmart him. That was inherently far too dangerous. 

"Really. I'd like to meet her," MacLeod mused softly. He had that conquering light in his eyes. 

"I'll let you introduce yourself," Methos muttered. 

Vice-Director Shamokin had finally stopped speaking. Unfortunately, it was only because he had introduced a young woman, Alyssa Something-or-other, who took up the topic of how perfect their island was, and ran with it. 

"We're going to starve to death," Methos observed, "before they stop talking."

"Maybe," MacLeod agreed, but his attention was riveted to the Immortal beauty on the other side of the room. 

The speeches lasted another twenty minutes before they were finally served dinner. That the servers brought him several bottles of beer was moderately mollifying, and Methos soon felt much better. 

Just as dessert was served, Alyssa Something-or-other popped back up to the lectern, and enjoined the diners to take a walking tour of the Palace at their leisure after dinner, and she pointed to a pile of headsets that would take them around while spitting out various boring details of what was built when. "The shuttle will be delayed to allow you to enjoy the tour," she said with a flourish. 

"We can walk back to the hotel," Methos decided, "it isn't that far, and this whole city has sidewalks every-damn-where." He paused and considered his expansive wording. He was feeling a bit buzzed. Those beers must have been higher in alcoholic content than he'd expected. Which was quite the feat. 

MacLeod was practically salivating over Salema by this point. "I don't mind waiting here. It'll give me a chance to get to know your colleague."

"She's not my colleague." Methos pushed away from the table. No, he determined, he wasn't really that tipsy. He felt okay. He suddenly noticed Barnstock coming his way, with a malicious, sneering confidence about him. "Fuck," he swore and grabbed MacLeod by the lapel. "Let's go."

"Wait--"

"Fuck, no. I'm not talking to that man. He's a total ass." Methos tugged him along through the door that was nearby. Where the hell could he hide? "This way." He pulled MacLeod with him through two more doors, a hallway, and another door. He had to make sure Barnstock couldn't find him. 

Methos shut the door and leaned against it, feeling for a lock. If he locked the door, Barnstock couldn't get in. MacLeod was standing in front of him, blocking his view of the room. 

"Methos…."

"What?" Methos turned away form the door, which did not have any sort of lock that he could find. "We have to keep going. He can find me in here."

"No," MacLeod said. "Look."

Methos looked. The room was vaguely dusty, certainly disused. There were no chairs in the room, no sideboards, no hangings. There was only a waist-high stone slab in the middle, and on the stone slab was a young man. Dead. 

"Do you know him?" MacLeod asked. 

"No. Do you?" Methos edged closer, reaching out a hand to feel for a pulse at the young man's throat. He was peaceful in repose. His hair was dark brown against his pale skin. He was clothed only in an off-white tunic and leggings, and covered all over by the same layer of dust that the floor of the room had. 

"He's Immortal," MacLeod said, although it sounded like a question.

"Yes," Methos said, and frowned. He couldn't tell what was keeping the young man dead. He examined the quiet body visually and glided his fingers across various areas, searching, searching-- "Ah, here it is." Methos found the slim metal pick, perhaps the diameter of a sewing needle, though many times longer, stuck through the man's side, and deep into where his heart would be. "Ingenious," he muttered as he pulled it out.

The young man gasped to life a scant minute later. He lay still for a moment and solemnly looked at Methos and Duncan. 

"We won't hurt you," MacLeod promised. "Who did this to you?"

Methos helped the man to sit up, noticing that he was very weak, as if he had been dead for an uncounted length of time. "I'm Adam," he said and smiled. "This is Duncan."

"Jonah." The young man turned guileless eyes to Methos. "Are you here to replace me? Am I done?"

"Done?" Methos echoed. "What do you mean?"

"For the island," Jonah said, and closed his eyes, obviously too tired to go on, and slumped against Methos' shoulder. 

"Jonah?" MacLeod asked, putting a hand to his throat. "Still alive. Just exhausted. Who knows how long he was dead."

"Or why," Methos added, gauging the needle-thin implement that had impaled the man through the heart. 

"We need to get him out of here."

"Not yet," said a female voice, and MacLeod and Methos turned to see the speaker from earlier in the evening, Alyssa Something-or-other. 

MacLeod immediately took a defensive stance. "This man is ill. We are leaving with him." His tone was flat, commanding and allowed no other interpretation. 

"I think not." Alyssa smiled and moved aside. Vice-Director Shamokin was behind her and when he closed the door Methos heard the deliberate click of a locking mechanism. A hidden lock. That didn't bode well. 

Methos could see MacLeod itching to go for his sword, but neither Alyssa nor Shamokin were armed, and for the moment there appeared to be a stand-off. 

"What do you want?" Methos asked. He still had Jonah slumped against him, hiding his hands. He could pull either his knife or his small derringer without warning, if necessary. 

"We just need you to sleep with us for a little while," Alyssa said. "Like Jonah. Then you can go." She smiled, but it was all teeth. "We only need one of you."

MacLeod frowned. "All three of us are leaving here."

"No, I don't think so." Vice-Director Shamokin shook his head. "You see, we anticipated your reluctance. So we drugged your food. It's been taking effect as you've waited here."

MacLeod pulled his katana. "We've leaving now." He went to move and crumpled to the ground, the katana clattering away. 

"I told you," Shamokin said. "Now which one of you will stay?"

Methos pulled his derringer out, but kept it hidden behind Jonah. He had two shots, and they both would need to count. He eyed MacLeod on the floor, and hoped that because he'd been sitting that the poison would be slower to affect him. He needed every moment. "We don't understand," he said. "Why do you need us? How did you pick us?"

Alyssa gave a dismissing wave. "We drugged everyone. They're all asleep now. But you two succumbed the slowest, revealing yourselves. And you were led here, by your intuition."

"Everyone?" MacLeod asked, aghast from the floor where he struggled to regain his feet. 

"They'll be fine. They'll sleep it off and think they just drank too much." Shamokin was blunt.

Methos didn't care as much about the roomful of linguists. Distantly, he hoped Barnstock overdosed and died an excruciating death. He focused on the important part of what she'd said. "You said revealing. What do you mean?"

"We know what you are," Alyssa said softly, coming around to touch her hand to Methos' forehead, as if a mother checking for a fever. Seductively, she placed her lips close to Methos' ear, her words ghosting her breath across his cheek. "Ever since time began we've had a Sleeping Immortal. Prince or Princess, you keep our island alive."

"Electricity," Methos whispered. He was sleepy now, and his hands felt too far away. Aiming the gun was a task near to impossible. He could hear Shamokin murmuring to MacLeod, probably telling him the same awful truth. 

"Yes," she said, her fingers tickling through his hair. "Energy. You'll be our life here. Over ten thousand people, relying on you. Living in paradise, living peaceful lives, without want, or hunger. And all you need to do is sleep a little while for us."

"No," Methos said weakly. Jonah was as heavy as granite against him, impossible to move, impossible to aim his gun. 

"Yes. Sleep now. We only need a little of your time. You have so much, you can share a little with us. You can rest now. You've been so very frightened, out there in the world, and here you'll be safe. You have only to sleep." She brushed her fingers through his hair and down the side of his face, like a lover, like a seducer. 

He couldn't see what her other hand was doing, but he could guess. She'd grabbed the long, thin needle. 

"Just sleep," she said, and bent to kiss him on the forehead. 

"Sleep," Methos repeated, and barely felt the thrust of the needle as it pierced his side. 

~~~ 

"You will be helping the entire island," Shamokin said, cajoling. "Your energy will allow ten thousand people to live their lives in peace and freedom. You only have to sleep for a little while. Then we'll let you go, when someone comes to take your place. You see? It's for the greater good."

Duncan groaned and shook his head. His muscles weren't responding. He had to get up, somehow, though, and stop these people. 

Shamokin reached for the needle-weapon and Alyssa shook her head. This one, she mouthed, stroking down the side of Methos' neck. 

"Perhaps your time will come some other day," Shamokin told Duncan. "Come back in fifty years and exchange yourself for your friend."

"No," Duncan said futilely. 

Then, a gunshot went off, and a second following so close that he almost wasn't certain there were two. Shamokin crumpled on top of him, and Duncan felt the impact of the slug, and knew it must have gone through Shamokin and straight into him. With regret churning, Duncan's eyesight dimmed, and he died. 

When he gasped back to life, Shamokin was still on top of him, and Duncan heaved him away. The man was dead, and good riddance. The drug was still at a low level in his system, but Duncan was able to get to his feet, reclaim his sword, and survey the room. 

Jonah was on the ground, dead, with a dark red-brown stain indicating he'd been shot. Next to him, huddling against the stone slab, was Alyssa. She wasn't dead, but her hands were covering her abdomen, and they were bloody. Two bullets, with two victims each. He wondered what sort of shot Methos was loading, 

"You've killed us all," she said weakly. "Without one of you, we'll all perish." Her breath was ragged and wheezing and she looked at him with spite and hate. 

"It doesn't justify what you've done," he told her, and let it lie at that. Duncan watched her for a long moment and, satisfied that she would be unable to get up to attack him, turned to check on Methos, who lay slackly against the slab. There was blood all down his front and side, but it was probably from Jonah and Alyssa, rather than his own. A small gun, holding two spent shots, was a few inches from Methos' hand and Duncan tucked it away into his own pocket for the time being. 

Duncan felt for the needle and quickly pulled it out, holding Methos while waiting for him to revive. 

Methos arched and breathed again. His eyes were glazed and unfocused, and Duncan realized that he must have gotten a far higher dosage of the drug. Probably from having twice as much beer as everyone else. "Duncan?" he asked. 

"Here." Duncan grabbed his hand to let him know he was there. "You'll be fine. It's the drugs."

"Burn it," Methos whispered. "Burn it all." Then he closed his eyes and was unconscious. 

Duncan shook his head, remembering all the drugged-out linguists. He would have to clear them all out before he burned it. But first, he needed to get Methos and Jonah out. 

He took Methos out first, settling him on the edge of the garden, near the entrance to the private Palace beach. Then he went in for Jonah. 

Jonah was alive again and watched Duncan with fearful eyes. "What have you done?" he asked. 

"I need you to stay with Adam and keep him safe," Duncan said, ignoring the useless question. "Can you do that?"

Jonah nodded. 

~~~

Methos woke to Jonah cradling him, warming him from the cool breeze that wafted off the ocean. "This is a switch," he said, and shuddered. He could still feel the tangles of death around him, the emptiness that had held him down, the eternal sleep that the stone had promised. 

"I don't think it goes away," Jonah said, as if he had heard Methos' thoughts. "I don't think it ever goes away, that feeling." He looked out to the darkness where the ocean's waves broke constantly against the shore. 

Methos closed his eyes, trying to cast off the sluggishness of the drug, and the empty yawning of forever stillness that had crept through his bones and into his marrow, while it had stolen every part of his essence, of his internal light. And he'd only been on the damn thing for five minutes. "We'll both survive," he promised. 

"You'll be okay," Jonah said quietly. "You'll forget soon."

Methos snugged in closer to the warmth of Jonah, and Jonah put his arms around him, sheltering. Years lost to that void, and Jonah was trying to comfort him, Methos wryly noted. "What happened to the others?"

"The others?"

"The ones before you."

Jonah shrugged. "I don't know. The one I replaced left. His portrait is on the wall."

Methos thought back to the portraits. Now he realized why they had caught his attention. Immortals, every one. And, according to the Watcher Files, all dead. Probably killed shortly after being released from here, all their vitality sucked out of them. They'd have been easy targets. 

He turned his head to look at Jonah. We're almost like bookends, Methos thought. Brown hair, hazel-brown eyes, and a proud silhouette. "You'd better stay with us for a while."

"I will." 

"Good." Methos took a deep breath and, fighting a vicious dizziness that spun his head in all directions, attempted to stand. Jonah leaned in and helped him up. 

"Adam?" he asked. 

"No one else. No more of this."

"No one else," Jonah agreed.

~~~

When Duncan went back in the third time, Alyssa was gone, leaving a smeared trail of blood behind her. He didn't have time to think about that, so he started going through the halls, looking for the others. He found them scattered everywhere, sleeping off the drug, snoring heavily. Strangely, he didn't see a single other Palace attendant. "Must have given them the night off while they abducted and assaulted us," Duncan muttered to himself. 

He'd hauled out twenty people and was going back in for another when he realized that he hadn't yet found Salema. As tired as he was from the rescue effort, he felt a rush of adrenaline. He should have remembered there was another Immortal. Had she been able to escape before the effects of the drugs overwhelmed her? Or had she been taken to the room with the stone slab?

Duncan wound his way through the halls and doors to the room. Salema was there, sitting on the floor. She looked at him warily. 

"Are you alright?" he asked, glancing side to side.

"As long as you aren't here for my head, it's all copasetic." Salema got to her knees and pushed herself standing. "Do you know what's going on?" She motioned to the other side of the slab and now Duncan could see that Alyssa was there, dead, a knife sticking out of her chest. 

"Somewhat," Duncan said. 

"They've been luring Immortals in here," Methos said from the doorway, and Salema and Duncan turned to stare at him. Methos had a can of gasoline in one hand, and Jonah was supporting him on the other side. "Somehow they were sucking out their Quickening and using it to power the island. Every light, every radio, every wall socket."

"Shit," Salema said. "She forced me here at gunpoint." She waved at Alyssa's body. "For once, it was better to have the knife at the gunfight." She grinned. "But I'm happy to see that you at least tried to rescue me."

"He's the crazy stupid hero," Methos said. "I'm the smart one." He started sloshing the gasoline around the room. 

Duncan raised an eyebrow at Salema. "Feel like being a crazy stupid hero?" he asked. "There're still a few people to carry to safety."

"Absolutely."

Duncan paused just long enough to make sure Jonah helped Methos out of there before the fire caught them both.

~~~ 

Salema drove one shuttle and Duncan drove the other. He made sure that Methos and Jonah were safely tucked away in the back of his shuttle before they left the Palace. The linguists were still all unconscious, happily unaware of the peril they'd been in. Duncan stood at the door to the shuttle, Salema a few feet away, and waited until he saw the flames escape the Palace and begin to lick the sky. 

"We can go," Salema said, and laid a hand on his arm. "It's not savable now."

Hours had passed, and the very earliest vestiges of dawn were coloring the edge of the sky as they drove back to the hotel. He looked out the windshield as he drove, to the glittering lights of the city. How long would the energy reserves for the island last? Would there be chaos by morning?

"I'll help the others," Salema told him after they had unloaded at the hotel. "They won't need much care, really. You take care of Adam and Jonah." She smiled. "See you around, hero." 

"I'll look for you," Duncan said. 

He brought Methos and Jonah to his room and put them on the second double bed. They were asleep in moments, curled around each other like puppies. 

He frowned. He and Salema had overcome the effects of the drugs by now, but Methos and Jonah were still exhausted. The only similarity between them had been that they'd both been on that parasitic slab. Jonah had lain dead for years, but Methos had only been there for a few minutes. Could the stone have stolen so much energy from him in that short period of time? 

He hovered his hand over them, as if he could tell through the air what the state of their Quickenings might be, and wondered. 

Methos opened his eyes. "Get some sleep, MacLeod. We'll fly out tomorrow."

Duncan nodded. 

Methos smiled very faintly. "Don't worry. We'll be fine."

"I know," Duncan said because it was true, he'd stand guard against the world if he had to. For a moment he considered the empty double bed, and then he got into the bed with the two of them, and curled himself around, protecting them, even in sleep. 

As he drifted off, he could hear the sirens in the distance.


End file.
